Poems

Just survive the day, Just survive the day,
Keep yourself safe, keep yourself safe.
I'm tired of just surviving,
When will I finally be safe?
...

Across the ground our Savior's blood did flow,
As He bowed His head in greatest woe,
His body racked with pain no mortal will ever know,
The beloved son of God was brought low,
...

Stop to take some time,
to think, to pray. Watch the
clouds drift, and float away.
Watch the little white oxeye
...

They are ruining the country,
They are driving it into the ground,
I've seen it every day and all year round,
They act so uncivilised, they've trivialised,
...

What happened to us?
We used to be good friends,
You admitted it yourself,
I never wanted that to end,
...

Normally, I'd write this down,
In that little book of mine,
That held all my thoughts and memories,
Every feeling, and everything that happened in my mind.
...

A small town,
With quite boring people,
A little girl,
Sits just under,
...

El tiempo pasa, pero aquí nadie llega a ningún lado
Caminan entre la niebla sin rumbo alguno
Persiguiendo un sueño que nunca han alcanzado
Resignándose a esperar un momento oportuno
...

Chess In The Mess

Intelligentsia
So entranced in their game
...

The forgotten pathways weren't just trails they were like wounded serpents lying still beneath the sand, their backs broken by countless footsteps and long lost battles. When the khamsin blew in, the earth swallowed engines as if they were part of a hungry legend, and the desert chuckled, its mouth full of dust. These forgotten pathways were more than simple routes, they were veins of exile, stretching like cracked palms reaching for the horizon, where wandering shadows once drifted like echoes of heaven beneath a sky far too vast for human sorrow. The silver lifeline wasn't merely water; it was a radiant artery pulsing through the ribs of a sun scorched giant, a patient mother carrying the weight of history on her back while kingdoms sank and borders betrayed their own. This silver lifeline was a mirror disguised as mercy, reflecting both paradise and famine at once an irony flowing quietly through parched villages where tiny lanterns learned the art of waiting. The little suns were more than just small lights; they were lanterns flickering against the darkness, tiny dawns wrapped in dust covered garments, memorizing sacred verses beneath acacia trees while electricity vanished like a broken promise. These little suns were seeds buried deep in hard soil, trudging miles under a relentless sun in search of water, yet returning home with laughter laughing like thunder that mocks the storm itself. The beating constellations weren't merely marketplaces; they were galaxies that had tumbled onto ancient streets, spices burning red and gold like captured sunsets, voices clashing like cymbals of survival. These beating constellations were hearts that refused to stop beating, where poverty stood shoulder to shoulder with dignity like twin brothers, and every worn coin bore the weight of a nation. The velvet heavens weren't just nights; they were black oceans stitched with stars, so bright that the River of Heaven appeared as a scar of light against the darkness.
...

The velvet skies were never just night. They were ancient havens of quiet, where silver haired storytellers spun their wisdom into the hearts of eager listeners, gathered around fires flickering like weary prophets. Meanwhile, the desert stood still, as if eternity itself had paused to listen.
The sun baked giant was never truly destitute. No, it was rich, like the earth before the rain, rich like hidden gold resting beneath scarred soil, rich like a sacred drum whose heartbeat waits in silence for the right hands to awaken it.
The sun baked giant was not weak. It was a titan draped in dust and sunlight, bearing the heavy burden of the sky on weary shoulders, while the world mistook its strength for fragility.
What a cruel twist of fate for even cracked earth continued to nourish hope for its people, like bread shared among the hungry. And even in times of want, songs still rose from the ashes of empty bowls.
...

Bajo los fríos bosques del norte
Se halla aquel que posee un hambre insaciable
Que devora todo sin que realmente importe
Volviéndose parte del macabro paisaje
...